A Hero Of Mystery and Magnificence
Illiv walked through the alleyways that night, observing the many kinds of skittering rats that inhabited them. Botard was good, he had a good sense of humor. He was charismatic. The fact that he had had the will to stay alive when he had nothing also spoke much about him. Illiv began to analyze the details of Botard’s facial expressions and tones from his memory of their conversation but stopped himself. He didn’t feel like thinking in such a way. He began to feel dead, and took comfort in the numb ascetic coldness of the sensation. The great spires of Arkrest loomed above him in darkness and hid him from the moon. Illiv walked and walked And walked. He stopped. A knife was in his back. He turned around, dumb. Another man, with a skull painted over his face stepped back from him. Three others, clad in dark robes and a camouflaging layer of garbage clung to the shadows with swords. A fourth was farther back in the alley, unarmed. Illiv waited. He stared at the man who had stabbed him. He did not try to summon his rage, he did not try to fight for the will to do so was not upon him. He watched the other man’s face. Eyes darted just slightly, looking back at Illiv. Wide cheekbones, a picture skull framed by tangled black hair. Lips parted and quietly did nothing. Illiv felt his blood run down his back, pooling along the edges of his pants. The other man’s lips found life, “Just give us the gold. There’s no point in fighting.” Illiv continued to stare. He slowly drew his swords. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to do this; that money isn’t worth your life.” This man did not understand death at all. Illiv squared up against his opponent. His goddess gave him nothing, but his own will to exist held him in place like a statue. The other men all drew their swords and began to circle around him. Illiv had not the will to make the first move. The speaking man lunged in first, and Illiv hammered his sword down with one blow, and with his other blade cut the liar’s arm. Two of his comrades moved in, the third stood awkwardly behind, uncertain of how to approach a fight so desperately crowded into such a narrow alleyway. Illiv fought hard, and he took many wounds. At once he thought that he would die, and that he would crush them under his weight to survive. As a gauntleted fist struck his face, he lurched forward, throwing more attacks. As blades cut his flanks and his legs, his mantra of standing and fighting kept him aloft, and he did not bow. One of the men lay dead as Illiv was brought to his knees by a well-placed kick. He remained looking upwards through the tunnel of darkness that crept along his mind, and clumsily swung his blades in a warding sweep. He may have been screaming. The other men had backed away, waiting for a beast to succumb to its wounds. Illiv saw only fear in their eyes, and hurled himself on elbows and knees towards them. He had to see them die. Suddenly, the fight changed. A cloaked figure fell from the sky upon one of the armed men, bringing him down in an instant. The two others had scarce time to react as the man rolled, producing a shield to deflect a blow from one of the men and rising forth with his sword to cut the legs of another. He continued to fight low, rolling to avoid blows, slashing legs, crouching, spinning. Among the fighting and through the rush of blood in his ears, Illiv occasionally heard snippets of cheery banter. “Not so!”, “Cowardly knave!”, “You are the...compost heap brains…kidneys in your eye sockets…” were sprinkled between slashes and punches, until the whirling, cursing virtuoso finally stood tall above the corpses. The figure turned towards Illiv, and crouched down to his level. Illiv’s attention focused on his patchwork cloak. It looked like curtains. There was red. He produced a bag. “Now, friend, that was an interesting thing to see. You have lots of blood to shed.” “I won’t die. I won’t die.” Illiv spoke the words with a will of steel, sharp and cold, but they slipped weak through split lips coming forth slurred and broken. “Not if I can help it, you beautiful underworld freak.” A blurry figure twirling a well-kept mustache was the last thing that Illiv saw.